Page 25 of Scrum Heat

Rory stomps past us and back toward the main pitch. I lean a little closer to Frankie and stage-whisper.

“He’s like… three steps away from a rut,” I tell her. “You smell that? That’s desperation and pine-scented restraint.”

“Stop it!” she hisses, though the corners of her lips are curving further upward by the millisecond. “He’s literally your packmate.”

“Exactly,” I say, eyes gleaming. “If he snaps, we can call it content.”

The door to the training facility opens, and Finn comes bounding toward us holding two bottles of water.

“Hi!” he says brightly. “Did I miss anything?”

“No,” Frankie snaps, spinning to face him. “Nothing. In fact, you’re just in time. You. Are.Perfect.”

She grabs a water bottle from him, and I loop my hands behind my head just as Jax appears; silent, shirtless, and terrifyingly carved. He’s carrying a tractor tire over one shoulder and his training shirt on the other.

He doesn’t say a word by way of explanation—he just sets the tire down near some cones and nods once, as ifhesummoned this activity from sheer willpower and disdain.

Finn beams.

“Oh, he’s in a good mood today!”

Jax just squints at the sun and mutters something about UV exposure.

I turn to Frankie. “That’s Jax for ‘good morning.’”

She blinks. “I thought he was a hallucination.”

“Nope,” I say, popping thep. “Just emotionally silent and powered by vengeance and black coffee.”

“Ok-ay,” Frankie shakes her head. “Let’s just… start filming.”

Rory jogs back into frame. “We’re ruining the club’s legacy one slow-motion video at a time,” he mutters, tugging his training shirt down.

This is classic Rory. He’s been like this since we were kids—stiff and serious, all sharp elbows and scowls while the rest of us were daring each other to eat glue and fake a concussion to skip math. You put him in front of a crowd and he looks like someone just handed him a baby and a live grenade and asked him to juggle, but give him a job to do—give him a pack, a match, a crisis—and he’s unshakeable.

He’s not the alpha you watch, he’s the alpha whodoeswhile you’re distracted watching someone flashier.

Which, to be clear, isme.

And right now, he’s about two seconds from hurling his water bottle at my head and logging a formal complaint with the Ministry of Sultry Shenanigans.

Beautiful.

I clear my throat and nod toward Frankie, who is trying to aim her phone somewherenotillegal.

“Let me know my angles, sweetheart,” I purr, stretching slowly—arms up, abs flexed, legs stretched, thighs tense.

She lowers the phone an inch. “Oh for the love of slicked thighs, can younot?”

“Eviesaidthighs,” I remind her solemnly, taking a gratuitously slow swig from my water bottle. I might purposefully let a trickle run down my neck. “Sponsor-safe thirst, that’s the brief. I’m just doing my job.”

“Stop sayingsponsor-safe thirst. And stopdripping. You’re not a hydration tutorial.”

“Say it with me, Frankie: slo-mo thigh shot, little water pour, suggestive wink…”

“I swear to god, I will lunge at you with this tripod.”

I take one careful step forward. “Please do.”

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